Page 154 of Queen of Sherwood

“I’m a horrible person!”

“I know.”

All I could do was nod. What was the point of denying what she said?

Wulfric’s words about Marian alerting camp sounded like she had done the right thing—that she had rounded up the troops for defense once we left, telling them what was happening on that southern hill next to Ravenshead.

But that had only stemmed from guilt, if anything.

She had also been the only other person around who knew of our plans. Everyone else who knew the plan had been in our group, fighting for our lives once we were ambushed in the wooded thicket beneath the hill.

That’s why it was so obvious Marian was our betrayer—yet again—once we had made it out alive and my brain could focus on logical, reasonable things.

Marian had helped us hatch the plan. She had been in the command tent tracing her finger over the map. Arguing with us about what to do. Getting her way, as usual, and veering the conversation in the direction she liked.

“Which is why,” Marian had said, “we must act preemptively. Get ahead of the bastard, before we’re get surrounded by Sir Montford and his horsemen.”

She had urged us to carry out this mission tonight.

“This is where Sheriff George will situate his command tent.”

Jabbing her finger on the map. Showing us the exact hill—with pinpoint accuracy. Will had agreed, being a native of Ravenshead, because it made sound sense.

How could I not have noticed? Why did I just go along with her assumption that George would settle in Ravenshead for a time and set up his base there? After razing the village to the ground, there was certainly no guarantee George would do that. I mean, wouldn’t a man trying to set up a base for hundreds of soldiers want to keep some of the buildings intact, rather than burning them to the ground?

And then, when it was discovered Marian had been right about the Sheriff’s location, why did I not question the coincidence of that?

Because I let my guard down with her, my mind said for me. She’d done two good things for us: helping us locate Bishop Sutton’s carriage, and then rescuing the orphans later that night from Muddy Meddlers . . . and I had naively thought it absolved her of all sin.

I was such a fool. So gullible to trust this witch.

“I told you not to trust me!” Marian yelled at me through her choked sobs.

She cried some more, pathetically.

The anger inside me, strangely enough, had subsided again. It was replaced by a deep sense of defeat and shame. Pity for this woman took root in my belly, no matter how hard I wanted to be furious at her.

“I wanted to give you a second chance,” I murmured in a low, faraway voice.

“And a third? A fourth? Don’t you see? I’m cursed.” Marian shook her head, hiding her face in her knees again. “Everyone who touches me dies! Your father to start—”

“Don’t you dare try to take credit for my father’s downfall,” I snapped with a snarl. “His demise was brought on by his own actions. Don’t flatter yourself with self-importance, Marian.”

I should have exploded on her harder. Should have laid into her.

But I was so tired. The lethargy creeping through my bones wasn’t just from the pain of my bruises, or the trauma of getting groped by George on the ground, or even all the death and carnage and running.

It went deeper than that, to my soul.

I was simply tired of being angry. Of being vindictive and wrathful. Of looking for someone to blame my problems on, so I could point to my doubts and say, “Well, if this person hadn’t done this thing, none of this would have happened.”

I was just as guilty as Marian, whether I wanted to admit it or not.

Of course, I wanted to know why she had done it. Why she had betrayed us this final time, when the stakes were highest, after seemingly turning over a new leaf and helping us with our run against Bishop Sutton.

What changed within her?

Clearly, whatever “unfinished business” she’d had in Nottingham had changed her perspective on things. Maid Marian was back where she started: untrustworthy, despicable, and wretched.

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